Mobile in his left hand, mobile in his right hand.
He walks down the street, like Desperate Dan.
He's an urban cowboy, with no need for a steed.
Laptop in his briefcase, a palmtop in his shirt.
He's on his way to the top, without a care who's hurt.
He has pound signs in his eyes, from pure greed.

City trader take a break, you'll end up getting old.
With all your "sell this", "buy that", it's you that's being sold.

He buys the Financial Times, to cover up The Sun.
Gets a taxi and not the bus, when it seems he'll have to run.
He's far too important to be late into work.
Pinstripes on his new suit, a bowler on his head.
By the time he gets to his desk, he has the FT read.
Then on to page three, to checkout the coachwork.

City trader take a break, you'll end up getting sick.
Slow your pace a little, when you see the paramedic.

Handset in his left hand, handset in his right hand.
Trading in the things, which others thought were banned.
Sending out for coffee, never knowing when to stop.
He's a law unto himself. Has no doubt who is the best.
From the Dow Jones to the Nikkei, he has no time for rest.
He's a work hard, play hard guy. It says so on his desktop.

City trader take a break, you'll end up being dead.
Then "sell this", "buy that", will be the only thing you've said.